Archive for the Poetry Category

A landscape of scarred pew backs
Faded under used up onion skin sunlight
Sweat and salivation
Something hungry and panting lustful
Beneath linen suit and tie,
Hollowed out eyes glinting feverish bright
The cut and fit slim difference
Between any other carnival barker.

All the things you want to hear
Slow comfort honey drip, drip, drip
We are right, we are good, yes
Nod your head easy, meek and mild
It’s them what’s wrong, big scary them
Growling at the threshold, oh little lambs
You’ll be perfectly safe, long as you’re afraid.

Think not on this world’s woes
Let the wounds suppurate and fester
The stench just angel baby’s breath
A grave made of this world
For the empty dark hole of the next,
You know it folks, step right up
All it takes is evetything you’ve got
From now till forever and ever amen.

So the dirt clogs lungs,
Clots beneath eyelashes
Lips sewn shut by scarabs and worms
Isn’t it lovely, the next life
So cozy beneath blankets of fruitless earth
Barren and threadbare bereft
Choking on aspirin bitter
Ashes under the tongue, we all fall down.

Everyone always wants to get to the point
Yet the point is the start, no destination
Just what you hang from, a pendulum
Until the scissors do their filthy job
First lesson, sharp steel and what it can do
To such vulnerable flesh.

Hey ho, here we go,
We’ll figure out the words as we go along
Turn about, turn away, every season in a day
Page upon page filled
What were we saying, doesn’t matter
Breathe and blink, pausing stutter…

Click clack film reel snicker
Footsteps tapdance tattoo, a billion pavements
Stitched closed by boot heels
Worn out at the knees, momma please
Not so fast, caught up in the turnstile
Left holding ticket stubs while the stage staggers on.

What’s your story?
Tangled tongues and breath
Lipstick in the creases
Four mysterious keys and a watch fob
All the million billion tiny bits
Swirling upwards, outwards, all the points
No point whatsoever, except, maybe
The story folded so neatly
Between palms with the lines just beginning to rise

Don’t give me greeting card love
I’m done with it, sick to death
Of meet cute movie soft lighting filter
Happily ever afters but only
After some contrived mis-understanding,
A few discreet tears, nothing that will damage
The perfection of the lover’s pretty plastics faces.

No, I want love that pushes into the gut
Like a dull, rusty saw blade
The one that you want to cut yourself on
The one that is worth suffering for
A lover made of scalpel blades
Something sharp cutting down to the bone
The sword you throw your heart upon.

I don’t think to love you have to suffer
Yet it is the love you would cut yourself on
That you would nurture its roots
With your bright blood,
That’s the one to cling to
The love worth dying for is, ultimately
The one worth living for too.

The taste of your pulse beneath my tongue
Rising tempo, trembling, expectant
There is a gulf of hunger between the beats
A hopeless mingling desperation
Of devoured and devouring
A chaos of hands and mouths
Cream streaked with crimson
The tension of arches
Dreaming of endless, quivering, slavering ache
Clenching, reckless spasms
Symphonies played out upon raw sting nerves
Throats scraped and seared
Tumbling, tangled, over and under and over again
To lay in the end upon breasts oiled with sweat
Spent so utterly in the only fashion
Worth such precious coin.

The rain is falling like tears broken open by a sieve
So fine that it looks as though the street lamps
Are bleeding strands of gold
Something magical pouring out of
An otherwise ordinary night
A little bit of wonder obtruding
Upon the drab skirts of life.

So gold drips onto my lips,
Moistening parched, cracked skin,
I’ve been speaking you poems for days
Breathless into the dark,
Tongue unreeling slow soft hymns
Out of your name and the secrets behind your smile
Because that is the purpose it learned
When you put your “I love you” upon it.

Now, all my speech tastes of you,
My breath conjures your shape out of moonlight
I have become this mad fool singing in the rain
Confounded by newfound joy
A fresh, new drunkard drinking deep
From the honey you poor down upon
Such impoverished souls as mine.

This could be viewed as a companion piece to “Not My First Kiss”, or maybe a finishing of the thought, a codicil that turns wistful nostalgia into something perhaps more hopeful. All I know for sure is that it is something that has been on my mind much of late, looking forward to that next kiss

I have gone on at great length about kisses. It is entirely likely that I have written miles of verse or prose dedicated to the subject, describing as best I can all possible varieties, shapes, conditions that a kiss may take or have. The fashion they can linger upon the skin or in the blood, the deep, lasting marks they can make upon fevered brain or tempestuous heart. One could say it is a favorite subject of mine, both a connoisseur, collector, and something of an expert even, if I do say so myself, although I think I could dig up a few testimonials to support the claim if I tried. The thing is, there are simply so very many kinds of kiss. The first kiss, the kiss goodbye, goodnight kisses, the best of which may turn into good morning kisses, languorous kisses that last whole afternoons and greet the dusk with sultry succulence, breathless take you by the spine and drag you to your feet kisses that fall down upon upturned lips like lightning, ringing in the ears like thunder, kisses that contain laughter, kisses that taste of salt, every hue or mood that passion may bend itself to will each have its print. All of these though, from the greatest to the least, all pale in comparison to that greatest of all kisses. The next one. The one your lips remember from birth as the faintest whisper of trembling, a dull, wicked ache like a blade scraped over the raw nerve that is you, the one that only exists as a pressure differential, the even if you kiss the same mouth forever and ever promise, the ecstatic, shiver up and down the spine in supreme, expectant, agony of antici…pation kiss. There will be in any life a multitude of kisses, some better, some worse, but I think that it bears noting that the best kiss you will ever or could possibly ever have…is the next one.

emisformake
The blog of my sissy-poo and the person responsible for me creating my own blog…so you can all blame her and while you’re at it check out her fantastically insane levels of creativity and talent